“Of course, I’d hate to keep you,” said Mrs. Sutton, abandoning her search. “Always a joy to see you, Iffy darling.”
“Why don’t you girls head out first?” said Sister Patience. “We’ll be right with you after we wrap things up here.”
They made their way back to the suncart beneath a pinkening sky. It was parked by a charging station, which was flickering to life as night fell.
“She thought I was her,” Daphne said in an undertone to Zada. Iphigenia, she meant. Her mother.
“Do you look like her?” Zada asked.
“Yeah,” said Daphne softly. “At least, when I try to remember her face. I guess I can’t be certain.”
When someone was Extricated, every trace of their existence in New Ionia was erased. Every photo in the feed was purged. Belongings were sent to the recycler. Their records were wiped out.
But memories remained, despite everyone’s best efforts. Zada’s own memories of Carine were still fresh, painfully so.
Carefully, deliberately, Zada reached over, put her arm around Daphne’s shoulders, and gently squeezed. Daphneleaned into the touch, pressing back for just a moment before she shifted away.
“Shirtless Scotsmen. What do you think that was about?” Daphne said, and there was only the slightest catch in her voice.
“Not a clue. It’s probably been curated.” Shirtless anyone on a book cover had to be a violation of at least seven regulations in the New Ionian civil code.
“Sure, but Mrs. Sutton had a copy somehow. Why do you suppose it’s important that the man is from Scotland?”
“Perhaps that’s where he lost his shirt,” said Zada.
Sister Patience and Sister Justice emerged a few minutes later. “Back to the lair?” said Sister Patience as they climbed back into the suncart. “Oh gosh, it’s getting late, I guess this time I’ll have to speed.”
“Have mercy on the young people, Pat,” said Sister Justice.
After a riotous ride to the nunnery that Zada would have sooner forgotten, the sisters escorted Zada and Daphne down to a cavernous, whitewashed room in the basement. Zada had never personally seen a basement before—everyone knew the city stood on a mountain made of granite, which was why most people chose to build up rather than down. However, that minor shock wore off when compared to the sight of the entire archives stretching before them. It looked a little like an antique photo of an old library. Zada instantly recognized the motley assortment of covers as a collection that had been assembled for use and not for show.
“Interviews are this way,” said Sister Patience, beckoning them into a narrow side room that was also packed with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Each one groaned under the weight of stacksof dust-covered recordings. “When you’re done, ask around for Sister Charity by the outer doors. She’ll check you out. Whatever you take, you’ll need to return after two weeks. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” said Zada breathlessly.
“Where do we begin?” Daphne muttered to Zada, who could feel her eyes beginning to bug out.
Zada waited until the nuns were out of hearing distance. “I brought my clone-scanner,” she said in an undertone. “No need to let them know just how much data we want. It could inspire awkward questions. I don’t know how to make sure we take a sample that isn’t skewed in one way or another, so I suppose we start by last name alphabetically.”
“I don’t see us getting past the Bs today,” said Daphne.
“Then we focus on the As,” said Zada, resolute. “And we go from there.”
They left two hours later, with a small pile of copies of recordings for show—and secretly cloned copies of testimony from everyone from Aaron Aaronson to Zulema Azure.
“All right,” said Zada as they headed out back into the blessedly cooling night. “Let’s go.”
Chapter ElevenIn Which Zada Struggles Not to Come to a Conclusion
It was late at night by the time they returned from their outing to see the sisters, pausing only to grab snacks from an enormous pantry stuffed with junk food on their way up to Daphne’s room. Zada accepted an armload of lavender jelly-swells and a new savory cotton candy called Cheese Breeze, and tried to tamp down her excitement at the prospect of finally seeing where Daphne spent so much of her time.
When they walked through the doorway, Zada had to work to keep her face neutral.
It was so generic. Daphne had the room of any rich girl in any middling teen drama. Pale pink walls, a huge four-poster bed and matching dresser, a tastefully done artificial window that opened onto a serene hillside scene—even the curtains boasted nothing more interesting than a single looped animation of pansies swaying in the breeze.
Where were the extinct bugs and the grotto rock posters? Where was the irreverence, the sense of possibility? Where was any trace of the girl who lit up a room like a firecracker?
“What?” said Daphne, retrieving two bottles of rose cola from a minifridge hidden in the wall. “You’re making a face.”
